When They Met Bruce
by Cobwebbs
Summary: Four Boys. Four Lives. Four different stories on how they met that one man that managed to hold such a huge part in shaping their lives, either for good or for bad.
1. Dick Grayson

**Just a bunch of memory shots from the boys and the first time they meet Bruce Wayne, not really entirely Cannon. Just a little tweaked from my brain. Hope you like it.**

* * *

Gone. They were gone. He was all alone. Nobody could take him, nobody knew what to do for him. But he didn't care. He just wanted his parents back.

The little dark haired boy sat in a plush armchair bigger than himself, sitting and waiting. Sitting and thinking. They told him _not_ to think about it. _Not_ to remember the horror on his mothers face when she realized they were falling. The short screams of both of his parents as their lives ended suddenly on the cold hard floor below. _Blood_. _Don't_ remember the blood they said. _Don't_ think about how, something so warm and _alive_ and full of energy suddenly disappeared, they told him. _Don't_ think of the sickening crunch of their bodies as they hit the unforgiving ground, they _insisted_. _Don't_ think about the horrid bent out of shape bones poking under their flesh.

 _Just don't think._

They didn't understand. He knew nobody understood. To everyone else his parents were just another set of human beings tragically lost. _News_. Nothing real. To him they had been his life. They had taught him how to fly. They had loved him, fed him, raised him. And it wasn't even that long. And now they were _gone_. As if they were never there. Maybe to the rest of the world, after this blows over, they really weren't ever there. But he _knew_. He knew they had been there. They had been alive, he knew they had _lived_ before, how else could he explain the harrowing black hole in his heart.

The small ten year old gymnast felt large hot tears stream down his face. He felt that all to familier sickness. He was going to throw up. He did. In the big flower pot next to him. Somebody wasn't going to like that. The boy didn't care. _He hurt_. He didn't care. He wished he had been on that broken trapeze. Not for the first time either.

The buzz that overtook his life was so sudden he barely had time to catch up. When his parents had fallen, time slowed for him. Everything became a numb blur. But outside, people were moving fast, telling him what he _must_ do, asking him so many questions, his slowed brain couldn't keep up. And they didn't stop to realize he was in shock.

They sent him here. In this rich man owned children's home. Something was going on in the background. He didn't know what. He didn't care. Adults talked to him, tried to get him to respond. _Nothing_. They all had the _same_ face, they all _sounded_ the same. They all _said_ the same thing.

'I'm sorry for your loss'

'It will get better over time'

'You'll be ok, it will all be alright.'

They didn't _understand_.

He ached. His insides twisted, his hairs stood on end, his brain felt like a squishy buzzing blob. His body didn't feel like it was his. He couldn't feel his arms, legs, head.

He was painfully numb.

It would _never_ get better. It would _never_ go away. It would _never_ be alright again.

He fell deeper into his numb black hole.

Footsteps. Loud ones, steady ones that seemed to be coming towards him with a purpose. He didn't notice.

Voices that sounded muffled in his blob of a brain droned past. Probably another social worker or news reporter. He didn't care.

"Yes, I am fully prepared to take the child into my custody. Here are the forms."

This voice was new. He'd never heard a voice like that before. It sounded big and warm, but had a tinge of hardness under it.

"Yes sir. He should be right over there. But I warn you, the boys been unresponsive for nearly two weeks. He's practically wasting away in there."

He knew that voice. The head of this childrens home. He never bothered to learn her name. He didn't care.

"What do you expect Ms. Gander." That voice again, "He just witnessed the death of his family, barley ten years old, and in such a horrific way too. That is bound to traumatize any child."

His heart pittered. Nobody had understood that. Well, maybe someone had _said_ it, but they never _understood_ it. The way that voice said it . . . it sounded like that voice understood, really, truly, _understood_.

"Well, yes. Um, there he is. See if he'll talk. I doubt it though." That comment made him numb again.

Footsteps. He didn't look. A large presence came up behind him. He could feel it. It was huge, shadowing, heavy.

"Hello." That voice said, it changed, dropped a notch in largeness. Gentled slightly, as if pained. The presence shrunk. The owner of that voice appeared and he couldn't help looking. The owner of that voice had shrunk to his level on the floor. The owner of that voice had a strong face, broad features and quick eyes that lay with something very, very heavy. Something that induced the boy to stare and actually wonder what it was that was hiding behind these startling eyes.

"My name is Bruce Wayne. I was there at the circus, when . . ." He trailed off, not taking his eyes off the boy, "I won't say I'm sorry." He continued, actually surprising the child, "But I _will_ say that I understand. And I want you to be able to go through this with as much help as possible. Even if you don't want it right now."

The boy's light eyes just stared back, unblinking. He wanted to do _what_?

"I am here to take you home with me, as my ward, to make you see that, although it might never stop hurting, there are ways to make it better. To hurt _less_." The voice and eyes seemed to say so much more than his words.

"Now, all you have to do is agree. And you can come home with me."

 _Promise_. That sounded like a promise. He sighed. The first sound he'd made aside from crying.

"Ok." First word he'd spoken in days.

That voice and those eyes seemed to fall into a sense of relief. The boy didn't understand _what_ he was so relieved about.

"Good, and I am glad to finally see you face to face Mr.-" He cut himself off glancing at the boy, and held out his hand for a shake, the child felt like this man was playing with him, he _had_ to already know his name. Why was he asking? He decided to humor this strange man.

"Richard John Grayson. But . . . um, most people call me Dick." He said quietly and slowly reached out his much smaller hand.

The man smiled and clasped his hand, firm, but gentle at the same time, "Nice to meet you Dick. You can call me Bruce." He gave the boy a small quirk of his otherwise stiff lips. It was a surprisingly warm quirk. It made the boy tingle.

And for the first time in what felt like years, young Dick Grayson smiled back.

"Nice to meet you too Bruce."


	2. Jason Todd

**As you've guessed this is about the boys in order. Jason's next. And like I said not exactly like cannon. I tinkered with Jason's a lot so... enjoy!**

* * *

They got him.

Shoot. It was all over now. _Idiot_. He'd been an _idiot_ for thinking this would go his way, things _rarely_ ever went his way. This was too good a heist to work out right. He choked, the hold the fat cop had on his shirt was tight.

"Hold up there brat, you ain't gonna get away _that_ easy."

The skinny, malnourished boy turned fierce green eyes towards that drawl. Detective Bullock was standing there, trench coat and all, smoking a thick cigar. Glaring at him in disapproval.

It made the younger male sick. Idiot detective probably just got back from gorging on all that food inside the building where a charity ball was taking place. His stomach growled. He was scared, and hungry. Nobody had ever caught him. Well, maybe once or twice, but it had _never_ been a cop.

Now he was _done_ , _finished_ , _caput_. He'd never see the sun again.

His heart thumped hard and fast, he grit his teeth to keep the fear from his expression. Think, _think_ , he had to think.

His head hurt. He couldn't think. He kicked out, got the heavy cop that was holding him in the gut. He spun around and bolted.

He tripped over a hubcap he'd dislodged. A heavy hand fell on him. Shoot. _Karma_ _sucked_. He saw stars as he struggled and gasped trying to get the wind that was knocked out of him back in.

"No you don't. This area was closed off for a reason punk. Who do you think you are, tryin' to lift wheels off Gotham's richest snubs." Bullock was angry, maybe not at the kid though. Maybe he was angry cuz this little worms antics were costing him a free eighth meal.

The boy snorted.

"What's so funny runt. You do know your goin' to spend a long time with us police right?" Bullock cuffed him.

The boys eyes narrowed, like _hell_ he was, "And _you_ do know I'm a _minor_ right? This isn't your _place_ Detective." He spat the last word, disgusted.

Freaks like this guy got paid regardless of how crapped up they were. While freaks like him, got the unfair end. It _sucked_.

Bullock did not look amused, "Shut it punk. Let's go. Into the car. Whachya thinkin, trying to pick off _these_ tires?" He demanded as he dragged the struggling child towards the squad car.

The kid had spirit, Bullock could respect that, most kids on the narrows were tough, but this one . . . Bullock couldn't help thinking this little underling should have been _dead_ a while ago.

Maybe that spunk is what kept the kid here. Alive.

"Let _go_ jerk face!" He kicked and fought, without anything more than insults. He didn't buckle, he didn't cry, he didn't beg. He just demanded, and fought.

"You have the right to remain silent punk, or anything you say will be used for basis on what foster system you get sent to." Bullock sneered, not really in the mood.

This made the kid fight harder, "No way in _hell_ am I going back there, _No_!" He seemed to suddenly get a surge of unexpected strength and let out a roar. The thought of being thrown into a foster system. In Gotham. Scared him more than he'd ever admit.

"Cool your jets!" Bullock actually struggled.

The boy cursed loudly and dragged Bullock to a wall. He suddenly forced himself up and ran, flipped, and slipped right up and over, landing behind the stunned Detective.

"I can charge you for Child assault!" He snapped and resisted the urge to kick the louse in the rear.

Bullock sputtered, "The hell? How'd you-Never mind. Just get in the car kid and you won't get hurt. You can't go around stealing other peoples wheels."

Oh, so now he was _lecturing_? Hah, like _that_ was gonna work.

"Sorry fatso, but I gotta eat, and unlike you, I gotta steal to do it." He whirled on his heels, handcuffed hands and all, and charged forward.

Straight into a brick wall. Or he _thought_ it was a brick wall, until it spoke. The voice shocked his system. Large hands gripped his small shoulders, and a heavy presence scared the crap out of him.

"Hold on there son. You'll get hurt running around like this." The large man lowered himself, still holding onto the boy, not harshly, but firmly enough so the child would think he was caught.

"Mr. Wayne." Bullock puffed out and rushed up, his hair sticking messily out of his fedora, "Sorry, we were just tyin' up this punk and-" Bullock stopped, "That your car?"

"Yes. It is."

Shoot. Now the kid felt like he was really gonna throw up, Keep it together, _keep it together_. This rich slob isn't any different from the rest of those jerks. He just happens to be richer than most of those rich jerks. This whole damn party was set up by him! And now . . . crap, _crap_ , and _double_ crap. He was so gonna die in prison. Who knew what Rich monsters like this guy could get away with. _Seriously_ , he was just a punk, born and bred on the street, nobody would miss him. Nobody would care what this guy did with him. And if anyone ever found out, they wouldn't care. He was, after all, one of the scum of Gotham.

"I-Look, I ain't afraid of you Mr. Moneybags. So don't think for a second I'll obey anything you say cuz you got a hundred thousand for pocket change!" He was _not_ going down without a fight.

The man looked at him, still holding his arms, close enough to have control, but far enough so he wouldn't get a sudden kick to certain places.

The boy froze, his eyes widened as the stared into the mans dark blue ones. Something spoke in those eyes, he didn't know what it was, but he felt a pull. He also felt his insides begin to shake.

"I don't want to enslave you son. I just have a question for you." The voice was level and almost, _almost_ , could be considered gentle.

The black haired boy waited for the worst.

"Are you hungry?"

That came as a shock to his system. Nobody had ever asked him _that_ before. _Wait_ , if this guy thought he could _bribe_ him with food...

"Y-yah? S'why I tried to pick off your tires." He admitted despite himself.

"I understand." The voice sounded like it had firmly decided on something, "Excuse me Detective, for intervening but, I'll take the boy home tonight, then we can sort things out tomorrow. So if you could take the cuffs off him please." It sounded like a suggestion, but with no real choice, for either boy or cop.

Bullock muttered something under his breath, roughly unlocked the handcuffs and shoved them back into his pocket, then sauntered back towards the building.

"Hey! Wait a minute, I never said I was going _anywhere_ with you!" The child's green eyes narrowed in hostility.

"I won't hurt you Son," He let the boys shoulders go, "You have a choice of course, you can run, or you can stay. That's up to you. But if you do stay, there's a good meal in it for you."

He _wanted_ to run. He _should_ have run. He _could_ have run. But he _didn't_. Something about this man promised . . . _something_. The boy wanted to find out what that something was. Besides he'd already hit rock bottom, didn't even expect to live the year out. Maybe this was his break. Maybe the universe didn't hate him. Maybe he was finally getting something out of this crappy world. Plus, he was practically starving by this point.

"Fine. I'll stay." He huffed, crossing his arms defiantly, trying to make it as if he wasn't happy about it.

"Good." The man held out a large muscled hand, "You know I'm Mr. Wayne, but I'd like you to call me Bruce. Ok?"

Green eyes regarded the hand suspiciously for a minute before the young males own scarred hand reached back, "Jason. Jason Todd."

The man gave him a firm, gentle shake, then his lips quirked up. Jason's eyes glued to that quirk, it was a small, slightly stiff quirk of a partial smile. But it was warm. It made him feel all gross and comforted inside suddenly.

Jason couldn't help it though. He smirked back.

"Now, about that food."


	3. Tim Drake

**Heeeres Tim! His was harder for me to write for some reason... him and Damian. Jason flowed the easies and Dicks was just too much fun to have a hard time on. But I hope I did the little guy justice.**

* * *

The lights hurt.

There was flashing yellows, reds, blues and oranges. They hurt his eyes. A little boy, who looked smaller than his actual age, with too long hair and big wide blue eyes watched, expressionless, as the paramedics covered the bodies of his parents and rolled them into their truck, out of his sight.

They were gone. _Dead_. Killed by a driver with a gun. _He_ had survived the car crash, miraculously, they said. He _should_ have gone into shock. But he wasn't. He was just standing there. His mind _working_ , _wondering_ , _thinking_ about what he would do now. What his next decision should be? They were trying to find a relative. He knew they wouldn't. They were trying to find a temporary foster home now.

He just watched. Watched and listened. Somebody said something about him.

'Poor kid must be traumatized. Both parents. _Gone_.'

'I wonder if the shocks so far, he can't react yet.'

 _Delayed_ , his reaction would come later they thought. The little boy knew it wouldn't. He wasn't suffering the way they thought he was. The death of his parents affected him about as much as a death of a _random_ stranger would. _Very_ little. He felt bad for them, but he didn't hurt like he should be.

The whole event was more terrifying than the _actual_ death of his parents. He'd been scared because the guy pulled a gun. He'd screamed because the car went out of control. He cried because he couldn't get out and the fire was spreading.

Not because his parents were _dead_.

Their broken bodies would probably hunt him, because _no_ child should see so much blood so young. But that was the _only_ reason he'd have nightmares.

His father had been a leading doctor. His mother a successful entrepreneur. They traveled much. Vacations, business trips, study visits. They rarely took him along.

He didn't know what spending time with his parents meant. He didn't understand what it was.

He had his own things going on. The only thing he usually wondered was how his parents even had time to have a child at all. Well, they must have used all of that spare time with that. Because they didn't seem to have any left for when the child was actually born.

He didn't mind though. It felt normal to him. He didn't _know_ anything else. Beside, he'd spent a lot of his time stalking Batman. If his parents had actually cared about him then he would have never been able to do that.

But now, back to the problem at hand. They wanted to send him to a _foster_ _home_. _Him_ , one of the rich kids of Gotham, in a _foster home_? That wouldn't go over well. He was young, but by no means stupid. He _knew_ what happened to wealthy children in a Gotham foster home.

Nope. He had to figure something else out. Hum, too young to be emancipated . . . maybe he could run way and find an abandoned house to live in for a while.

His head hurt some, his thinking was fuzzy and a little off. He scratched his forehead. _No_ , that wouldn't work. Besides, he was too small, they'd catch up with him instantly.

But what else could he do?

"Excuse me." A voice caught his attention.

The small boy turned around, his blue eyes doubled in size.

A tall, smoothly dressed man was maneuvering his way around the police, news reporters, and trucks. The dark haired boy knew that face. He'd seen that mans face more time then he could count. On Tv _and_ in person.

Bruce Wayne was the _legend_ of Gotham. But, what was he doing here?

He scratched his little head again, wondering. He blinked as the huge, important man came closer and closer.

"Yes, that's right Commissioner, Where is he?"

For some reason he'd never noticed the interesting sound of this mans voice before. It was big and seemed to have a hidden ability to say more than his words.

Or maybe it was just fake.

"There you are." He was standing in front of the small boy, who at the moment, felt extremely insignificant.

"Hello Timothy." The giant kneeled down, right there, on his nice beige pressed pants, on the dirty asphalt, just to make eye contact with the tiny boy, he put a huge hand on the bony shoulder, "I came as soon as I heard." He looked into the boys face.

Tim bit his tongue, speechless. He _knew_ Batman's secret. He knew who this man was pretending to be now. He _knew_ , he'd figured it out two years ago, he was just shocked how well he played Bruce Wayne. . . and having two such important personas standing in front of him was starting to make him cave.

"Mr.-B-Wayne . . .why are you-" He couldn't speak. His throat closed up. Tears suddenly blurred his vision. _Why_? He was fine before, what was happening.

The elder mans face dropped it's stiffness by a fraction, he pulled the boy closer, "It's all right, I understand. Here, I've come to take you home with me. They said they couldn't find any relatives so they settled for neighbor."

Tim swallowed. So, he wouldn't have to go to a foster home? Or was Mr. Wayne just offering for one night. Of course, what would Bruce Wayne want with a small brat.

"Want to come?" The man spoke. His voice was a tinge warmer than before as he regarded the boy as if he was a fragile piece of glass.

The blue eyed boy nodded, his hair falling over his eyes, "Ok. Ok, Mr. Wayne. Thank you."

He felt shaky. The fear of the crash was weighing in on him now. He suddenly felt a little sad for his parents . . . His heart clenched some. Maybe he wasn't as indifferent as he'd hoped.

"Good, now, you can just call me Bruce, son." He reached out a hand for Tim to shake.

"Oh. Ok Mr-er, Bruce. Um, can you call me just Tim then?" He shook the large hand firmly, like he'd been taught.

The man let his stony face soften even more. He quirked his lip. Tim swallowed, wide eyed and surprised, Batman _never_ smiled. Neither did Bruce Wayne . . .much. . . That was a very small quirk, but it made the small boy feel lighter. Made him feel as if the man wouldn't be dropping him off somewhere after all.

"Well Tim. Let's go then. Let's go to your new home."


	4. Damian Wayne

**And here we go! Damian! Yes! Finally! He REALLY stumped me. Dang it all, I hope this didn't turn out too badly.**

 **Let me know what you thought of the whole thing. Enjoy . . . I guess.**

* * *

His mother had requested him.

No, More like _demanded_. She demanded he get to the back room immediately. So he hurried. It was not wise to anger Mother. Especially since she seemed very urgent for some reason.

He let his small hand rest on the hilt of a Japanese sword almost as long as his entire leg, that was tied to his belt. He walked smoothly and quickly, he almost seemed to be gliding. Anyone standing in his way jumped back, or smartly took a detour. They knew enough about him to know never to get in the way of him and his destination.

He bit back a snort. _Idiots_. All of them. So beneath him, yet, somehow they managed to still be in his Grandfathers employ.

 _Well_ , he supposed there had to be some of these morons around. How _else_ could he train if there wasn't any _expendables_ to train on.

He continued down the long dim hall. Why did she asked to see him now? Why in the back room, all the way across the complex? Why in the middle of his Katana lesson? He let his brain run over many questions he would never _dare_ voice to her. Not yet anyway.

Maybe when he got older and stronger.

He felt a strange prickle on his neck as he drew closer to the targeted room. What did she want? He didn't know. He _hated_ not knowing. Maybe it was a test, maybe she was testing his speed and ability to take on surprise attack she had planned for him.

He stopped in front of the door.

He swallowed, adjusting his sword and slipping on his black hood. He stepped closer to the heavy oak doors in front of him. They had a fierce dragon carved on them. The eyes were made of fire opal. They seemed to glare at him, _daring_ him to open them.

He scoffed and reached for the handle, although slower, and with far more apprehension than he would ever admit.

He pushed the door open. He didn't enter. It was dark. He swallowed down his suspicion, let any sign of fear slip away from his young face and gripped his sword. He stepped inside stealthily. No sounds.

His light green eyes narrowed in the dark, trying to notice any shadows denser than the dark.

Something moved. He slashed. His sword stuck. His heart spiked. A lantern flickered on suddenly. He swallowed thickly, there was his mother, encased in, uncharacteristically, a long red dress that revealed nearly everything.

The boy regarded his Mother with a confused look as she held his sword blade between her palms.

Her cold eyes stared back, "Hum, where you in the middle of a lesson?" She cocked her head inquisitively.

The boy drew back his sword and slipped it back into its place, "Yes. But you said it was urgent so I came immediately. What is it mother? Has somebody attacked?"

The woman shook her head and slipped a hand through the boys hair, "No. I merely want you to meet someone. Stay here until I beckon you, he should arrive shortly."

She walked towards the heavy red curtains and disappeared behind them. The young assassin waited, as she ordered. But soon, he grew restless. He wanted to know who it was his mother needed him to meet so urgently. Was it another esteemed teacher? Was it a ruler of another country they wished to band with?

He paced back and forth. He _hated_ waiting for _anything_. It bored him. But it _was_ one of the lessons his mother frequently hammered into him. He forced himself to stop moving and narrowed his eyes at the heavy curtain, as if trying to see through it.

He huffed to himself, his ears straining to hear anything on the other side.

A minute of silence. Another. A few more. Then, a motor. He perked up and listened harder.

The motor drew closer, it was a boat, a fast one judging by how fast it sounded closer. It shut off. The dark haired ten year old bit his tongue and snuck closer. He listened, heavy foot steps sounded. Sure footsteps. They were steps of someone who knew where they was going.

The door opened.

"Ah, Mr. Wayne, so pleased you could make it."

"What do you want Talia." A voice snapped tightly.

The boy backed up, surprised. He'd _never_ heard anyone speak to his mother like that. Especially not a _man_. He wouldn't be surprised if the impertinent man was dead now.

"Come now Beloved, why so formal, don't you want to relax a bit first? Here, have a drink." His mothers voice answered smoothly.

Much too smooth. He heard crystal clink against each other.

"No. Not to insult, but you tried to poison me last time. Now, I say again," The voice grew harder, it sent a spike of fear through the boy, " _What_ do you _want_?"

He gripped his sword, who _was_ this man? How did he _dare_ talk to his mother like this?

She sighed.

And why was she letting him get _away_ with it?!

"Very well. I suppose I don't have much time either. I have called you here to give you a present."

 _What_? What as she talking about?

"You've heard of My Fathers condition. I'm sure. We are in danger now. I do not wish for him to fall simply because his superiors are fighting."

Now he was _really_ confused. What side plot did his mother have going on now? They should be focusing on that traitor, focus on training, not. . . _whatever_ this was.

His fingers itched to pull back the curtain, to demand an answer from her.

"Him?" It was one word yet it rooted the boy to the spot. He heard his mothers footsteps come closer to the curtain.

"Yes, I need you to protect him. Because I'm not sure I can for much longer."

"Who?"

"Your son." She pulled back the curtain to reveal the small framed assassin, "Come out dearest." She said simply.

He swallowed the shock that threatened to immobilize him as his brain quickly put the pieces in place.

This man. This huge shadowed man, was his _father_. The man he'd heard great and fearsome things about. The only man he'd ever wanted to meet so strongly. This man, was now finally in front of him. He stood stiffly and studied him.

The man seemed to be doing the same thing with the same expression.

The boy came to a quick conclusion. The man was shorter than he imagined, but looked as fierce as his mother had described.

"Go on. Speak to your father boy." Talia snapped them both out of their analysis.

He stepped forward, ignoring the churning nerves in his stomach, "Hello Father." He let his bright eyes rake over the man up close. No expression donned the older males face, "I thought you'd be taller. I am Damian. Damian Wayne."

Talia smiled proudly, "Take care of him Beloved. For he is your legacy in formation." She turned and disappeared behind the curtain before either son or father could say anything.

Finally, the statue of a man kneeled down to eye level, "Damian, huh. Well _you_ know who I am . . . so I guess you'll call me Father then?" The voice had dropped a notch, not nearly as cold and harsh as it had been before.

Damian raised a brow, "Yes. Unless you become unworthy of that title." He spoke haughtily.

The man's lips moved. Damian watched in sudden fascination as the intimidating face cracked and made way for a third of a smile. It surprised him. His mother never smiled at him like that.

He felt a strange urge that was out of place in his mind.

"I'll do everything I can to make sure I stay worthy then."

The small boy felt a strange pull and let his face shift into his own third of a smile, matching the older mans to a T.

"Good. I'll drive."

* * *

 **And Fin!**

 **It took longer then I thought . . . I meant it only to take four days. Oh well, I hope you guys liked it.**

 **Now, if you don't mind, go check out my _'Cats_ _instead of Bats'_ story.**

 **I'll need all the support I can get!**

 **Thanks for reading!**


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